


A New Life

by Catsintheattic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Family, Gen, Parents & Children, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:59:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While upbringing and family count for nothing these days, they are all she has, and therefore, she’s going to make do with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [diabolica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/diabolica/gifts).



Narcissa steps down from the stairs into the manor’s hall. It is strewn with boxes: valuables already sold and ready to be sent away, family heirlooms about to be stored, and the basic necessities that she will take with her to their refuge in France. She has decided on one of the family’s smaller houses in Paris instead of their larger estate in the country-side. As much as Narcissa loves the vastness and green colours of the country and the smell of lavender in the summer, she knows that she has to stay on top of things. And that is easier in the big city where she can re-establish old alliances and form new ones over afternoon tea.

Draco’s suitcase is packed and sits ready in the hall; his cloak lies on top of it, brushed and spotless. Pinkie emerges from the kitchens with a water-tight box filled with Draco’s favourite pumpkin sandwiches; flavoured with nutmeg and a touch of cinnamon. 

Draco bends down to store them away in his travelling bag, and Narcissa lets her gaze roam freely over his lanky form. His wrists stick out from under his suit, still too long and thin. His hair is immaculately cut; the white-blond tips throw a soft shadow on his cheeks as he leans over his bag. He secures the latch and checks it one last time. Then he stands before her, his back straight. His eyes betraying nothing of what goes on in his mind. 

He is everything his father always hoped to see. Narcissa wants to scream. 

He is seventeen, and his eyes are old like Lucius’s, the day they sent him home from Azkaban. But to Narcissa, Draco is still her little boy. No – she still _wants_ him to be her little boy. She wants to fold him into her arms and hold him, to never let him go. 

But he is seventeen, and he thinks of himself as a man. She can’t hold him back, can’t keep him safe, not anymore, couldn’t, in fact, keep him safe since the reparations started, since the Dark Lord took over the manor, since insanity and blindness overwhelmed common sense and survival instincts. She couldn’t keep him safe. The knowledge is a deep black hole inside her heart. 

She can’t break down in front of him, and so she holds on tight to what she’s been taught. She’s a pure-blood witch of the Black family, still married to Lucius Malfoy, even though he is nothing but a shadow of his former self. And while upbringing and family count for nothing these days, they are all she has, and therefore, she’s going to make do with them.

Draco will stay in Britain. He has decided that this is where he needs to be to save the family name, and she can’t hold him back, can’t take him with her, no matter how much pain it causes her to part from him. He’s going to live in a small flat in the wizarding district, near Knockturn Alley. Draco has made certain to prevent her from seeing it, but from the address and the meagre details he shared she gathered that finding an agreeable space for a reasonable price was a challenge. With their assets still frozen, Draco must have cut back on amenities. 

She catches his gaze, unwilling yet to give up this last connection between them. 

“Draco,” she says, and his name is sweet in her ears, reminding her of the smell of baby-fine hair on a bright summer morning, of small fingers clutching hers in wonder and affection. If only she didn’t have to say goodbye. But it has to be done. 

“Draco,” she starts again, “it is time.” Her voice almost catches in her throat.

All he does is nod. His silence is another thing that’s new. The old Draco would have talked endlessly about all his plans. The Draco subdued by the war would have looked to the floor, trying to melt into the shadows. This new son of hers simply returns her gaze and waits for her to continue. Narcissa doesn’t know what else to say.

“Take good care of yourself. And ... I know your flat doesn’t have a fireplace, but owl me, you hear? Let me know how things are going. You’re taking Atlas, aren’t you?”

He nods again, and she stops herself from blabbering on. Instead, she stays silent, signalling that it’s his turn to talk.

“Mother,” he says, “I’ll keep you posted. Give my greetings to everyone.” He opens his arms and closes them around her. And no matter how lanky his frame, she feels small, for the first time in years. She leans into his embrace, allows herself to be comforted for a few moments. 

“The fireplace is cleaned and ready, Mistress” Pinkie squeals, and Draco lets go of Narcissa, steps back and straightens the sleeves of his suit. He dons his cloak, takes his bag, suitcase, and a handful of Floo powder and steps into the fireplace.

Narcissa watches the fire erupt in a whirl of orange and red. The staccato of her heart is the only thing that penetrates the numbness in her chest. When the flames have calmed down, she takes her own travelling cloak and handbag. Pinkie grabs her suitcase and places it aside of her. Narcissa’s hands are shaking when she takes a handful of Floo powder from the bowl. 

Pinkie will stay back, too. Since Narcissa is allowed just one house-elf to take for travelling, she decided on Eloise, who speaks a little French. There is no use to take a house-elf that can’t even go to the market without its mistress doing the translations. Maybe she can buy a second one in Paris, or, better still, find a way to wriggle one out of Aunt Auriné’s large household for free. 

“Goodbye, Mistress! Pinkie will take good care of the manor, Mistress! Pinkie will send reports every day, Mistress. Please, Mistress, stay in good health and return safely!” 

When the fireplace starts to swirl all around her, Narcissa suddenly imagines Pinkie, wandering the manor with a feather duster and a candle at night. The ash burns in her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday present for my darlingest celta_diabolica, who gave me the prompt _Draco, Narcissa. Pride._
> 
> Lots of thanks to vaysh11 and fpb for beta reading!


End file.
